She tells stories.
Some of them are true.
Most of them are not.
Christina has written dramas for various Youth Groups. She was commissioned to write and direct a monologue based on the Book of Ruth for the Canadian Youth Presbyterian Conference, which she also directed. She also wrote and directed a choral speaking drama entitled The Call of Samuel. If you are interested in more information on any of her pieces that would be suitable for Youth or Drama Groups, please contact her.
Excerpt from Ruth monologue
Naomi’s strong arms held her two sons from their first moments on earth
until she lay them in the ground.
My own arms embraced a husband but for a moment,
yet never rocked a child.
We are united in our loss.
My husband’s mother and I, two strangers of different lands,
Now forever bound as family,
And the only kin we have in this country is each other.
No claim to anything but a couple of newly filled tombs.
I watch as her tears mingle with my tears, dropping onto hardened soil,
- Where you go I will go-
together forming a small rivulet that runs along cracked ground,
- Where you stay I will stay-
our tiny river of tears finally sinking into the parched earth.
- Where you die I will die and there I will be buried -
Hearts and hands entwined in grief.
My hand, as cracked and dried as the path we now walk
joins her hand, wrinkled and calloused by steadfast love.
I want to learn her gentle strength, her faith.
-Your people will be my people and your God my God -
I see the sun behind the hills. The road stretches out to possibility and hope.
Somewhere in this heat and dust is God,
and Faith, a bridge between there and here.
Bethlehem is full of noise and smells
People shouting goats bleating, human scents mixed with animal musk
Stalls filled with dried fruits and pots and bolts of cloth
Skin-and-bone animals, braids of rope, hard husks of bread
Eager-eyed vendors vie for a sale
Their faces read of hunger and hope .
Yet as Naomi and I pass into the city, I feel as though all noises cease
And all movement stops.
Eyes turn and burn holes into our backs as we,
Two widowed women, walk .
I try to read their faces; they are a speckled blur of reactions
From indifference to curiosity to distain .
Several men look us over in passing as one might appraise a cow .
Eyes teeth skin hips hands reveal much about the inside:
I wonder what my eyes tell them now?